


Black, Two Sugars Please

by S_IRIS



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Drug Abuse, F/M, High School, Romance, Teenlock, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-02-09 00:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1961394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_IRIS/pseuds/S_IRIS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixth Former Molly Hooper was always the outcast, no boy had ever turned to grace her with a look, let alone take a fancy to her.</p><p>Sherlock Holmes was a paranoid junkie who wanted his hands on anything that soothed his unstable brain.</p><p>Would they find solace in each other, or would Sherlock turn to the needs of his untrained mind and betray Molly and his own friends?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, I did Sherlolly and Adlock this time because I feel this story shouldn't be Johnlock because frankly no two other boys here can have the friendship that John and Sherlock share, so yeah. . . this is F/M. Plus I wanted to do something other than Johnlock. . .

She knew that she was going to stick out like a sore thumb this time too.

Molly Hooper, with her long auburn hair tied in a perfect plait behind her and with strands which were coming loose tucked behind her ear neatly, was the perfect picture of a future morgue girl who was destined to do autopsies for the rest of her life. Her secondary school life had been boring, very,  _very_ boring up till now except for those not—so—frequent occasions where she found an abnormality in her dissected frog's anatomy and those very frequent occasions where she was dismissed trying to point it out excitedly.

Or at least, it would ultimately prove to be boring, she thought. She  _was_ going to stick out. All people who did not even know her would recognise her from her tell—tale appearance and call her the Molly "morgue" Hooper, a middle name she rather wasn't fond of. However, she was hoping that because this was Lower Sixth Form, she would at least meet some new people. New,  _interesting_ people, perhaps.

There was one decent friend that she had who was going to attend Sixth Form with her and who had also been with her since prep, Mike Stamford. Mike didn't qualify as a best friend, not really. Molly Hooper did not have any best friends. She was the sort of girl who liked staying indoors, spending her Christmas curled up in an armchair in front of a cosy fire and writing away into her diary about her life and defining her goal and spending the next morning trying to remember them instead of simply looking into her diary.

She liked writing. She was fond of writing because writing was the one thing (Except her ambition to perform autopsies for the rest of her life) which was true to her, which was a part of her. . .

So anyway, back to Mike Stamford. Mike was a decent fellow, he always respected her and her intellect, and unlike his more sexist peers, he never shirked away when it came to asking for help in his homework from Molly. One could say that they were best friends, but Molly knew the difference. If time came, if everything went against her, she knew that Mike won't stand by her side. And neither would she.

So, that's how she knew that Mike wasn't her best friend. And she wasn't disappointed. She was perfectly happy, and she could turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to some names which she had been called during Year 7 and 8. It used to hurt her, but now it didn't. She had grown up, she had grown past that stage.

"Hey, Molly!" Mike's voice came from behind her as she got down from the bus, "How have you been?"

She turned to him and smiled, "Hey, I was just thinking about you," said she, and Mike looked surprised. A couple of boys behind him cackled up at the sight of Mike talking to her. He immediately looked apologetic, forgetting her initial sentence. She smiled sympathetically. She wasn't the one to be influenced by the impression her peers had of her, but she understood that not everyone was like her.

"It's okay," she said, trying not to make him feel uncomfortable. If anything, she felt incredibly lucky that she had a friend like Mike who still talked to her and still cared for her, "I'll see you in class, alright?"

He shrugged, and with an incoherent apology he walked away. Her smile dropped and she continued walking. A friendly face was always good, she told herself. And Mike was a sweetheart.

Walking into the St. Bart's secondary on the first day of the final two years of her school life should've felt dramatic to her, like there should've been at least a band, or an orchestra to mark the beginning, to commemorate the moment her footfall crossed the threshold of the school entrance. She thought she would've felt a little more grown up, a little more responsible, like adulthood would come up to her (although she was still fifteen) and hit her right in the face like a virtual wave. She thought she would feel. . .  _different_.

Story of her life. Her life was bland, like a painting with all its colours taken out and leaving the dull canvas. Maybe that was a good thing, she reasoned, that maybe now she would be able to fill it with her _own_ colours.

She now knew she had been watching far too many "Chakra" and "Yoga" videos on YouTube.

Instead, walking into the school felt like she had surfaced from a long time time spent underwater, like this was now air and finally she could breathe. She didn't know why she was feeling this way, like the summer had smothered her. Everything had been perfectly normal. She had begun to study for her future, planning it ahead meticulously, every day, every hour, and in a few months, probably every minute.

So, when she found a group of fifth years in skank clothes looking at her like she was some sort of a misplaced mental home worker with daddy issues (which she wasn't, thank you very much), she found that she didn't mind. It was better to have a minute gone unplanned and spontaneous. Nevertheless, she did not smile back at them, knowing that she would come across as weird.

She spotted Mr. Lestrade near the ground floor staff room. Mr. Lestrade was a good teacher, she had heard from some of the seniors and even the alumni, and she looked forward to be taught by him. Behind him, there was Mrs. Donovan, another teacher. She was fond of Molly, very much so, and Molly was fond of her too, except for those occasions where she didn't answer her queries about certain things.  _You'll learn it in higher classes_ , she chanted everytime, and Molly sat back in her seat with a pout and a dejected expression. There weren't any higher classes left, but she knew better than to verbalise that.

"Hello, Molly," called Mrs. Donovan to her in a friendly manner, "How was your summer?"

“All right,” she halted in front of the teacher, as she dodged tin lunch pails and stray elbows coming in her direction. For a moment, she was tempted to tell her the truth, but then Mrs. Donovan was a teacher and she thought that she wouldn't be comfortable if she started telling her about how her dad had recently lost his job and that he had taken to drinking. She chose to tell her about what she had done in her last summer. “I spent it with my grandmother in Camden. How about yours?"

"You know, the usual," said she with a hollow laugh, "Getting a divorce, getting broke getting a divorce. . ."

Molly let out a laugh, only to understand that she wasn't joking, "Oh—oh no! I'm—I'm—I'm—sorry, I'm so sorry! I—I thought you were, you know,  _joking_."

Mrs. . . or rather, Ms. Donovan now, or whatever her maiden name was, just stretched her lips across her cheeks insincerely, "See you around, then." Molly coughed in mortification. She probably looked like a fool there. She stood outside the door of her classroom and took deep breaths. She shouldn't let it affect herself. She shouldn't let it affect herself, she repeated it over and over in her mind.

When Molly entered class, she saw Mike sitting with a blond boy quite short for his age, but otherwise sturdily built. Even if she didn't know half the people there, and half the people didn't know her back, she decided to take her usual seat in the back benches. She never liked admitting it to herself, but she felt like she had an advantage over other people when she got to see others' heads, instead of others seeing hers. She just didn't like the idea of knowing that others could see her but she couldn't see them.

Beside her, in the next row, a head full of shaggy and unkempt dark brown curly hair lay lay resting on the arms of a lanky boy with his legs stretched to their longest. He looked like he had been thrown out of his house for cooking meth. Well, except for the starched and spotless white shirt. Molly's eyes narrowed and she decided to ignore him and the soft snores that came from him. Even though she hadn't seen his face, he seemed like the kind of boy who who was too sullen to talk to anyone properly.

To her delight, Mr. Lestrade arrived and bid everyone a cheerful hello, and then plunged straight into the most detailed and complex lecture about the pulmonary system that she had ever heard. Her head was buried deep in her notebook, her hand cramping with the rapid and furious note—taking after a long summer of rest and taking care of and watching her dad, and it wasn't until she came up for some air halfway through that she noticed the boy in the row beside her still sleeping. She squinted on him, focussing and taking the sight of him in. He didn't seem to  _own_ a bookbag.

Molly wondered whether she should say something, because she had heard that Mr. Lestrade was quite the strict teacher when it came to making his students learn. For some incomprehensible reason, she felt like she really shouldn't interfere with his what looked like much needed sleep. And then she looked in front to see that she had missed a part about the bronchi. She snapped her head in the direction of the board and furiously took down her notes, looking up into her textbook for the missed portion whenever Mr. Lestrade was busy labelling a diagram.

When Mr. Lestrade finished his lecture, he asked them all a series of tricky questions, not just a review from the lecture but things that they really had to think about. The whole class was struggling, their brains clearly out of practice, though all Molly's studying over the holidays was paying off pretty well, as was of the blond boy sitting in the first bench with Mike. He seemed like a scholar. Maybe she could go and be friends with him.

Suddenly, Molly had the feeling that Mr. Lestrade had seen the way the boy beside her was sleeping openly in the classroom on the first day itself. With a sharp clear of throat, the teacher motioned to her with his eyes to wake him up. She poked him with the end of her pencil, even shook him gingerly by his slender shoulder, afraid of whatever contagious epidemic she might catch from his starched white shirt _(maybe he was Puerto Rican or Mexican, no Molly, that's not a good thing to say, that is racist)_ , but there still wasn't any response from his side. The entire class turned to look at her and her futile efforts at waking him up. But the boy was more stubborn than her own dad pissed on the couch. Not able to take it anymore, she opened her water bottle and poured it down his head. The entire class started laughing as the boy came to consciousness and looked at her with supreme annoyance.

"Why did you do _that_ for?!" He demanded angrily, not caring that he was there in front of the teacher. Molly had seen such boys in movies. She did not know that such people existed in real world as well.

"I'm sorry," said she, returning to her seat, "You weren't waking up."

“And what about you—Sherlock Holmes, isn't it?” Lestrade said, crossing his arms across his chest and giving Sherlock a look that somehow contained all the elements of amusement, annoyance and impatience, "Have something to contribute?"

The boy, Sherlock, suppressed a yawn that had been bubbling up in him and scratched his head untidily, "What's the—uh—question?"

"Effects of a malfunctioning  _conus arteriosus_ in frogs versus humans," he snapped, but Molly suspected that Sherlock did not seem to notice that. Instead he simply said, "Page number hundred and thirty five, column two, paragraph three. There you have it."

With that, he promptly went back to sleep, leaving Mr. Lestrade dumbfounded. Molly turned to page number 135, column 2, para 3, as did everyone in the class. It was sure there. The boy, Sherlock, did give a very misleading impression. He had  _memorised_ the textbook? She couldn't help but let a small smile creep up her face, even if he had thrown the answer right in the face of her decidedly favourite teacher.

Lestrade gave an uncomfortable cough, "Ah, well, thank you, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

When the class ended, Sherlock did not seem to get up. He was still sleeping. Molly thought that she should try and tell him to. . . go to his next class perhaps? She needed to do that, didn't she, as a human being? Although she wondered if poking Sherlock into wakefulness was a 'human' thing as well.

Nevertheless, she did poke him into wakefulness. She noticed that Sherlock's eyes were surrounded by black circles, his hair mussed and unkempt and he looked like he could lapse into a micronap anytime. Well, he looked like that before a pair of piercing steel—gray eyes narrowed as he took in her appearance with a Grand Canyon valley—deep crease between his eyebrows.

"Um. . . the bell rang," she offered.

"So?"

"Means you should get out of the class?"

His eyes narrowed further, "You aren't a teacher, why are you lecturing me?"

Because the next teacher surely would, wouldn't they, she resisted the urge to say anything like that, instead going with, "You look like you haven't slept in days."

Sherlock sat up straighter, "Unless that's an exaggeration that you're using for the phrase 'missing sleep for a few hours', I'd say that you've got it spot on."

She looked at this weird boy, weird but now she could see intelligence in his eyes and his broad pale forehead, "How many days?" She asked him instead.

"Two," he replied and she frowned.

"That's impossible. You would've been dead by now."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, now taking her water bottle peeking out of her bookbag without even asking her and washing his face there in the class itself, "Wrong. You need to rob yourself of sleep for eleven days, of approximately two hundred and sixty four hours, the statistics vary from person to person, that is if you don't lapse into a coma or a micronap, instead of the forty eight hour window you are suggesting."

Molly wanted to ask him if he really had been kicked out of a crystal meth—cooking gang (he might have been, if he did go on rapid-fire like that in front of them), but something about Sherlock's cool, nonchalant manner made her believe that it was a wrong idea. She had no idea why she was still talking to him. She knew the species that Sherlock belonged to, she had never met one of him before and neither was she fascinated by that.

Well, she wouldn't have been if Sherlock hadn't hit so many hammers right on her head about facts and information that basically sounded like Latin to her.

"How far have you gone?" She asked him, "In terms of sleep—deprived days, I mean?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, and suddenly jumped to life when Mr. Lestrade almost yelled at them, "Very well, Mr. Holmes, it certainly was an effort to stay awake in the class, but not when you've got a girl _talking_ to you!"

Molly blushed, but whether it was because of the way Lestrade had said 'talking', or whether it was because of what he had pointed out, she had no idea. To her horror, Sherlock answered him back, "Well, you'll manage one too, Lestrade if you don't look like you're trying hard and if you tear that price tag off your shirt."

She cast a glance at Mr. Lestrade, who had spun around to see if there was any price tag. It turned out that Sherlock was merely pulling his leg. Molly smiled at that. She didn't know why, but she felt it her obligation to follow Sherlock on his way out, maybe to hear how many sleep—deprived days this eccentric boy had spent till now. For some reason, Sherlock. . . he was different, like God had made her wish come true. She had asked for someone interesting, and here he was, in flesh and bone. For some reason, her brain kept telling her to back off, maybe because she couldn't take the disappointment that if she talked to Sherlock for long enough, he might turn out to be ordinary after all, and then she'd have to go back to her pissed dad and her second—hand books.

Suddenly, Sherlock turned around and smirked at her, "Three."

Molly's brain struggled to keep up, "What?"

"I can stay awake for seventy two hours continuously, but this time, I think I'll go off to sleep again. . . Unless you. . ." he eyed her coffee flask cautiously and expectantly. She kept it with herself just in case. She had pretty sleepless nights trying to get her dad sorted out, and she decided that it would be better if she just...

"You want _my_ coffee? For your. . . experiment?"

"If you could call it that," he smirked, speaking in a low voice which rumbled pleasantly even amongst the din that surrounded them, and she felt, for some very,  _very_ obtuse reason millions of jagged—edged butterflies invading her tummy, "but at any rate, was it over the summer, or before that, or perhaps both. . . ?" he trailed off.

The butterflies in her stomach were replaced by a heavy thud, like she had collapsed to the floor in a heap of skin and bones even though she was still standing in her place, rooted to her spot as Sherlock continued to scrutinise her. There were only two things that had happened over the summer and right before that, and she had no idea how Sherlock knew that, because she hadn't told anybody that. They were very hurtful, and as soon as that introspective faraway look was lost on him, she regained herself from the earlier shock and tried to look unaffected.

"Where's your bookbag?" She inquired instead, and was fairly surprised when Sherlock opened his mouth to answer. Maybe he found her worth his time, because he seemed like this sort of all—important guy who never _deigned_ to talk to anyone. And then she remembered that he hadn't even asked her her name, and she was aware of a stab of reluctance about handing over her coffee flask to a complete albeit weirdly charming stranger.

"Home," he replied, causing all her thoughts to come to a skidding halt, like a big red stop sign had been imposed.

"That's obvious. . . I mean, you usually bring your bookbag to school, don't you?"

He gave her a weird look, and Molly decided that it would be best if she just got over with it. Sherlock had clearly not understood anything. Forgetting everything, she simply handed him the coffee flask, "By lunch, I need it back," her voice hushed and almost reverent. She had no idea why she was doing this, how Sherlock could be so compelling—

"If you say so, Molly," said he, and sauntered out of there. It took her a few seconds to realise what had happened.

How did  _he_ know her name?

She felt oddly light, like she had been trying to push herself underwater only to feel the water buoying her upwards, not allowing her to drown. It felt like gravity wasn't enough to hold her in place, and everything else appeared blurred in contrast to the sharpness of the corner into which Sherlock had just turned and walked away.

He was brilliant, to put it in the most simplest of ways. He was  _different._

Molly only wondered if being exposed to uncharacteristic, eccentric brilliance was supposed to feel that way.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time Molly thought of Sherlock Holmes that day—or rather met him—was during recess.

Recess time was always bad for her. When she arrived in the cafeteria, she looked around at the various tables, with girls and boys in them, chatting, taking selfies or talking about disgusting horny stuff. Most of the tables were occupied and Molly felt like everyone in the cafeteria was suddenly aware of her presence and trying to actively ignore it. She didn't know why she felt so paranoid at times, maybe it stemmed from the thought that her drunk dad used to say frankly hurtful things to her that she tried to shut away.

And sometimes, she thought, that maybe, just maybe, there was truth in those words.

Maybe that's why her mum had left her—them—all alone, to set out to conquer the world and let Molly deal with her alcoholic father.

She felt like the entire batch of students present there were ready to bolt if she approached them with the slightest look in their direction. And it was all so normal, so predictable, so much that she didn't know whether she was pitying herself more or the utter normalcy of her routine.

Probably the latter. Wishfully at least.

So, maybe it was a good thing that most of the people didn't know her.

But sometimes, even if she kept telling herself that she didn't need anyone, it did get terribly lonely. She secretly wished that there was someone to share her lunch with, someone she could have at her side so that she wouldn't feel the accusing glares from the other kids, some saying  _Why's she all alone_? or something like  _Is no one supposed to sit with her or something_? No matter what she kept telling herself that she was an adult (not technically, but yeah, in a sense she was. Mentally) and that she could deal with everything on her own, sometimes she really couldn't.

She spotted Mike Stamford sitting with the same blond boy who had answered many questions in Mr. Lestrade's class, and she contemplated for a moment whether to sit down with them. She thought that maybe Mike wouldn't like it. He had his guy friends with him, and she really didn't know how they would react to Molly "morgue" Hooper.

It struck her for one second that even if half the people didn't know each other, they were still sitting together. She was the only one standing out alone. She always believed that it was because of some misfortune during middle school that made her an outcast and that as soon as she touched high school, maybe she would be accepted because people won't be judgemental about her at first sight and that she'd be careful about misfortunes. Now, even during her first day, she was alone. She maybe gave off some vibes of  _leave me alone_  or something.

She remembered that she had grown past that stage, the constant need for acceptance borne out of insecurity during teen years. She was almost an adult. Well no, she was fifteen. But she would be, after another some years, she thought with a sigh.

Molly realised that she was probably looking a bit odd standing there all by herself. Probably bordering on as odd as a three pound bill being found fluttering out of the Bank of England. She picked at her long hair and found a chewing gum stuck in it, to her disgust. A couple of girls nearby giggled at the sight of Molly "morgue" Hooper trying to get rid of a chewing gum from her hair, even took a photo of it, muttering something along the lines of "Instagram" and "Facebook". Molly sighed miserably. She could handle this. They were immature. She was mature and grown-up and—

Or maybe, she couldn't.

Molly turned and walked away. No matter what she tried to always pretend to herself, when she looked in the mirror, she hated her hair. It was long, auburn, didn't have the pleasing texture to it. When she touched it, she felt like she was running her fingers through a broomstick. And the colour was weird. Once she had tried to dye it blonde, thinking that blonde hair always looked good, no matter on who, and she had to sit at home for the whole week for the awful colour to wear off.

Maybe she could sneak out of school through the back gate, get some lunch at the diner just outside the perimeter of St. Bart's secondary instead of sitting through recess in the cafeteria? She had some money, she kept some extra as a caution sort of thing, in case she wasn't able to take the bus, she could always take a taxi even if it was really expensive. She was wearing a skirt, but she could jump over when no one was watching.

That was almost impossible. There would be someone watching. People in the diner would see. People driving past would see. Kids in gym class would see. And what if she fell? That would be so embarrassing, not to mention she would have to wash her clothes. She didn't like the public laundry machines, and the washing machine in her house had been beaten to death (well, not death, maybe to non-function) by her drunk dad.

She won't fall, she thought as she unthinkingly made her way to the back gate of school. This was also against the rules of school. She couldn't be seen sneaking out. She had a reputation of being a good girl who followed rules to the letter. The principal, her teachers, everyone saw her as a decent girl of Audrey Hepburn's generation. If she was found out trying to sneak out of the school, what would her teachers say? They'd be so disappointed with her. They might never trust her again.

And the last thing she needed was her pissed dad being called to school to "discipline the young lady".

Irrelevant, she decided. People's opinions didn't matter to her, she chanted to herself, as if the words could make her believe.

Nevertheless, she  _was_ wearing a skirt. What if it got torn? What if she had to spend her day in school wearing a torn skirt? She had already had a lunchroom disaster. She couldn't take a wardrobe malfunction on top of it. Unthinkingly, she walked to the school grounds, avoiding the group of sixth formers getting high behind a tree. She patted her auburn hair self-consciously. She was really hungry.

The back gate was in sight now. Not very high, but she had to climb and jump over it. Plus, it had spiky rusted rods sticking out of the metallic structure. One slip, and it could cut through her while he attempted to climb over it, cause tetanus, bleeding, even death if not treated properly. If only she had someone to help her. She wished she could've asked. . . oh, no. She really couldn't allow a boy to help her.

She picked at her bookbag, sighing nervously and looked behind herself. There was no one, it was still recess but at a corner far from her, she could see football jocks. She looked away. She wasn't going to ask  _them_  to help her climb over. And even if she asked them to, they would cast an eye at her and make some excuse, or push some retard or pervert over in her direction, who might try and peep under her skirt.

She felt uncomfortable. And hungry.

And that's when she saw Sherlock Holmes coming out from behind the tree where some addicts were getting high. She  _knew_  that he was  _that_  kind of guy. The one who preferred to stick crack up their nostrils instead of the others who loved making out with the newest girl. She was generally never wrong when it came to judging and evaluating people. Part of being an outcast was that you got a remarkable amount of time to observe and learn others' behaviours and emotions.

Still, he looked surprisingly not-high. He looked sober. But he did have a white packet sticking out of his jeans pocket. He had drugs or something of that sort, but he didn't choose to take it, whereas he clearly looked like a meth-head. That was a really admirable display of self-restraint from an addict, Molly thought.

Of course, he was an addict. Molly sometimes wondered what the ecstasy was, what a chemical could induce in the brain, and why it fell prey to it over and over again and not form some sort of natural resistance against it unlike its natural reaction against other chemicals if they were used repeatedly over and over again.

Then she recalled that he had borrowed her coffee flask for his sleepless experiment. But he didn't have a bookbag. And he didn't have her coffee flask. What the hell had he done with it? She had trusted him with it!

Somehow, anger flared up in her, and she wasn't sure why. Being angry and taking it out on someone else was completely childish. And she was adult, and it was contradicting. It was different, from the first time she had seen him. That time, she had felt overwhelmed with brilliance, eccentricity, something  _new_. Something that wasn't her pissed dad who vowed every morning that he would join Alcoholics Anonymous and forgot all about it by night.

Something awesome.

Now she felt angry. He should've been more responsible! Molly hated irresponsible people. And she didn't have money to buy herself a new coffee flask.

Before she knew it, Sherlock Holmes had spotted her and he stuffed the coke deeper into his pocket, but it was clear from his face that he thought Molly  _knew._  She didn't give a damn about whether he liked drugs or whatever (well, she did give a damn about someone doing drugs because it wasn't a good thing and she was a little social worker); she wanted her bloody coffee flask back.

"Hey!" She called. Sherlock Holmes' footsteps quickened, away from her. She filled her lungs with more oxygen than it could fit them and yelled, a tiny squeak.

"HEY!"

That seemed to bring a hitch in Sherlock Holmes' walking/hurrying-away-like-Cinderella. Molly felt a little sheepish of her own outburst, "Sorry, I—I didn't really mean to—shout."

Sherlock Holmes didn't approach her, didn't do anything, just stood there, watching her, fox-like-furtive silver eyes assessing whether she was going to say anything about the drugs. Well, she wasn't. She wasn't a twelve year old who was going to be scared that she had seen drugs and then go and confess to the Father and to the Lord about it. . . that reminded her, it had been almost two weeks since her last confession.

As she gazed at the boy, he didn't seem the same eccentric, brilliant, one-of-a-kind guy she had met in Mr. Lestrade's class. She knew this was going to happen, damn! A second meeting and Sherlock Holmes was proving to be an utterly unoriginal creation on God. He was just another teenager with drug problems to soothe his unstable mind and his drug habits. Her stomach gave a swooping sensation. The one thing that had seemed out-of-the-ordinary had seemed to be ordinary after all. She'd have to go back to her bland life. Again.

She shook herself inwardly. Not her agenda right now.

"I wasn't getting high!" Sherlock all but pleaded, and Molly backed away a little. She knew how weird and touchy-feely meth-heads could sometimes be, "I'm sober!"

"Oh no, don't worry," she shrugged and wondered why she was being all submissive when she was supposed to be anything but that, "I—I—erm. . . need my coffee flask back. That's if you're done—with it, you know—erm. . ."

Despite the lack of change in his expression, Sherlock visibly relaxed, "Sorry what?"

Her stomach gave another swooping sensation. Had he forgotten her already? "You—erm—took my coffee—for an experiment—or something?"

Sherlock stared at her like a lost puppy, blinking innocently. "Oh—I think you're taking me for someone else."

She frowned and narrowed her eyes. No, this guy was the one who could spend three whole days without sleeping. The one who had pointed out the answer to Mr. Lestrade in the textbook rather than bothering to chant it back, The One who had taken her coffee and her coffee flask and knew her name even if she hadn't told him. The one who somehow knew that her father had lost his job and taken to drink over the summer and that her mother her left them before that like he was an MI6 spy or something.

"You're—not Sherlock Holmes?"

Of course, he was Sherlock Holmes.

"No, I'm not Sherlock Holmes," the boy shook his head. Molly felt frustrated. She was already hungry and she was pretty sure that he was lying, but he didn't look like he was lying.

"Are you sure you're not high?" She asked softly, and the boy rolled his eyes. She felt a bit intimidated, a bit too overwhelmed by him.

"Look, just leave me alone, girl!" He snapped, and then his voice became lower, "and don't tell anyone what you saw."

"Okay, but then, you'll have to do something for me."

"What?"

"Find me Sherlock Holmes. The bastard has taken my coffee flask and not returned it to me yet."

She noticed a subtle clenching of fists when she called him a bastard, and the boy gave in.

"Fine, I  _was_  lying," he deflated. "I  _am_  Sherlock Holmes. And I lost your goddamned coffee flask. I'll buy you another one since you can't live without it. Happy?"

Molly wanted to give him her darkest scowl. He was  _proclaiming_  that he had lost her coffee flask as if it was once-in-a-lifetime achievement and then being a complete arse about it. How could he?

"It's not buying me another one, Sherlock—can I call you Sherlock?" She squeaked. She hated this unconscious part to her which wanted to be nice and not-rude to everyone in the world.

"Whatever suits you. . . at any rate, what were  _you_  doing here?" He narrowed his eyes, and Molly felt a flush of colour on her cheeks. Why, she didn't know that.

Sherlock Holmes lowered his gaze at her, silver eyes penetrating her like laser into steel. "You didn't come here for a hit off, you're clutching the money in your fist very tightly. You're unwilling to part with it. Junkies love drugs more than money. But you're near the back gate too," he eyed the street beyond that.

"You're not going to run away from school, you're clearly too worried about your coffee flask to do that. Means you need something on the street. . . Hmm. . . stationery, maybe you forgot to get something for class. . . graphs or A4 sheets maybe? But it's almost ten minutes left for recess to get over and you haven't eaten anything. . . you're going out for lunch, maybe you find the cafeteria food substandard. . . unlikely, you're already poor. Maybe have an allergic reaction to it or maybe you had an embarrassing moment in the cafeteria, that's why you prefer the diner across."

Molly's breath stuck in her throat as she lowered her gaze, feeling extremely uncomfortable. True, they weren't rich, they were quite poor, but he didn't have to point that out, did he? Was that all he had, insulting and intimidating her so that she didn't say anything to the principal?

"That—was. . ." she swallowed back the lump in her throat, not meeting Sherlock Holmes' gaze. "You shouldn't say things like that."

He looked taken aback. "Why not?"

"People get hurt, if you say things like  _you're already poor_  to their face." She avoided his eyes. It wasn't a sort of conversation she liked.

"But you  _are_  poor." Sherlock pointed out, and Molly crossed her arms defensively.

She gave up. "Okay, will you just—buy me a new coffee flask?"

Sherlock watched her and then out of the blue, "Okay, I'll give it to you tomorrow." Molly blinked confusedly.

"But how can I trust you?" She asked, "I mean, you were lying to me that you weren't Sherlock Holmes to escape the blame. How do I know. . . actually, you know what, you can get one for me  _now_."

But the words were out of her mouth before she had time to ponder over them. Going out of the school, with a boy, with a junkie. Not good at all. What if someone saw? What if somehow the principal or her teachers came to know of it? They'd be so disappointed with her, and Molly would feel like hiding in a closet until the world ended. What if one of her dad's friends saw her and told her dad about it? He got mad even if Molly talked to her own cousin brother, let alone someone like Sherlock Holmes. He might stop sending her to school at all.

"What, right now?" Sherlock asked her helplessly, looking at her with an expression of alarm, " _Shopping_?"

"Not  _shopping_ ," she clarified, trying her best to not lose her composure, "It's just buying a flask, no big deal. Just ten minutes."

"Tedious," he declared, slouching against a tree. Molly narrowed her eyes. If buying a flask was tedious to Sherlock, he had been making her a false promise.

"But you'll forget it later," she protested feebly. Sherlock groaned inaudibly.

"Anything else but boring things," he insisted, and then eyed the street. "Okay, I'll pay for your lunch instead," he shrugged. Molly's eyes widened.

"Sorry  _what_?"

That was even more disastrous. Now, if she were seen with a boy outside school  _during_  school hours, it'd look like they were on a date _and_ bunking school. During school hours. If any of her father's friends saw her talking to a boy, she really didn't know what he'd do.

"I'll help you out of that gate and pay for your lunch." Sherlock repeated nonchalantly. Molly didn't know what to say or what to think. He was going to  _pay_? Yes, she didn't have money to buy a flask for herself because she tried her best to save every penny from her dad for her uni tuition fund but that didn't mean that she was going to let him _pay_.

"It's not about paying for things, Sherlock," she sighed. "It's about responsibility. Even if I didn't know you, I trusted you when I gave you that flask. You've broken it. The trust—I mean, not the flask—well, I don't know if you broke it too."

This seemed to sting Sherlock, for his features softened and the corner of his lip twitched, "Oh, I. . . apologize. I didn't—realise you looked at it—that way. But shopping is still tedious. I said I'll pay for you, it's the same, isn't it?"

No, it isn't, Molly wanted to tell him, but knew better than to verbalise that. "Okay, erm—anyway, I need to get over this gate, so," she glanced at Sherlock. She wasn't going to let him help, was she? He lied, was a junkie and repeatedly called her 'poor'. That in itself was bad enough for her.

"Oh, you need help? Okay," Sherlock shrugged and began walking, not registering Molly's absence beside him. Molly felt even more anxious and she unconsciously smoothed down her skirt to her now wobbly knees. Why did she have to wear a skirt today, of all days? What if Sherlock tried to peek into her skirt when he lifted her and tried to help her across?

"Sherlock, wait!" She called out feebly and rushed after the lanky teen, searching for any excuse to abort this. She'd rather stay hungry and sans coffee than this.

He turned around, "Yeah?"

"Erm. . . I'm not—" she looked away, not wanting to look into Sherlock's ever-observing eyes, "I don't think you'll be able to help me."

Sherlock looked—affronted, actually, like Molly had just insulted his strength, which she probably had. "Of course, I can! I'm good at this!"

"And it's also illegal—on, no—I didn't mean illegal—not illegal per se, as in—not in the rules to get out of school before it got over."

Sherlock smirked a little. "No one will care if you got out and in. And trust me, I can do this," he sank to his knees near the gate, as if waiting for her to put her weight on him. Molly really didn't want his help now. She just needed a hand, not to put her entire weight on Sherlock.

"Sherlock, seriously. I—I don't think you—you'll be able t-to take my weight."

Sherlock snapped her neck towards her too quickly for the action to look normal. "What?"

Molly frowned. "What what?"

He rolled his eyes. "I wasn't talking about lifting you," he took out a pin from his pocket and set down to pick the lock on the back gate.

"I'm good at picking locks," he said, as the rusted hinges of the lock gave away with a distinct click. Molly reeled backwards in embarrassment. She had never ever felt more stupid in her entire life. Here was a guy who, she thought, was expecting to lift her and help her across the gate. Now she had made a fool out of herself in front of the one guy who was anything apart from what she had seen throughout her fifteen year old life.

But that embarrassment was replaced by a certain feeling of high when she saw Sherlock Holmes picking a lock. She felt like she had suddenly been teleported miles away and that now, there was only air where she had been previously standing. Breathing was becoming difficult, every sound white noise compared to the throbbing of her heart in her ears. All thoughts reduced to a messy jumbled heap except one.

He could pick locks!

"After you," Sherlock stood up and opened the creaking gate for her, "they really need to oil the hinges."

"And let students escape, right!" Molly remarked, and Sherlock gave her a lopsided smirk. Molly couldn't believe it. She was outside school. During school hours. This was such an act of indiscipline. She was breaking school rules on the first day with a boy she barely knew. Her heart hammered in her chest as she stepped on the dusty tarmac of the street and felt the wind blow in her face, like the school was the Selfish Giant's garden.

"Speaking of illegal," Sherlock began, a slight uncharacteristic twinkle to his eyes as he dug into his pocket for his wallet, "did you know that it is illegal to die in the Houses of the Parliament?"

Molly stared at him in amazement, "Really?"

She had never felt like this. She had never had a best friend. Well, BFFs were a thing of the past, but then she realised that somehow, girls didn't like her enough to want to be friends with her. It would be one day, two days and then any new girl she thought might be her friend would run away. Boys. . . only Mike Stamford talked to her, and that too because she was intelligent and could help him with homework.

And now, a guy was willingly talking to her. A brilliant, daring, untouchable guy. That had not happened since ninth year.

"Yes," Sherlock exhaled a breath, "British Law is as ludicrous as anything can be. . . Well then. Here you go, fifty," he took out a fifty note out of his wallet and extended it to her, "keep the change."

And the happy feeling crumbled away like sawdust.

"What?" She looked at him tensely. Now that she was out of the school, she found out that she couldn't be alone. She felt inexplicably nervous at the thought of being alone. All the adulthood talk went right out of the window, "You—you said you were going—" a gulp, "—to pay for me."

"And I  _am_  paying for you." He clarified patiently.

"I thought you were going to be sitting—with me. In case I got caught—"

"You won't," he reassured her, to zero effect, "trust me."

". . . Please?"

He exhaled a sigh, and Molly felt a little guilty for making him sit with him against his wishes. ". . . Fine, but only in the name of science."

"What?"

"You gave me coffee for my experiment. It's only fair that I return the favour."

Nevertheless, he waved a bewildered Molly towards the other end of the street. Molly decided that she liked that reasoning; but she did insist that they cross over the zebra crossing at which Sherlock only rolled his eyes and walked on without a care in the world.

It was afternoon time, and the diner was mostly empty and sort of dimly lit with artificial light, with vague jazz music playing. The barkeeper yawned as she entered with Sherlock. Molly had always passed it by, never really entered it, and it was sort of exciting to go in there for the first time, as childish as that sounded. The air-conditioning was alright, she thought as she tried to keep her distance from Sherlock, so that they didn't come across as something that even remotely resembled a couple. It was good that the diner didn't have windows that spilled light in. Less chance for anyone from outside to see her with a boy sitting in a darkened place.

Sherlock Holmes looked slouching as he dragged himself over to a booth and fell down on it, yawning slightly, "That makes it fifty," a huge yawn, "four hours, thirty five minutes and," he glanced at his watch, "nineteen seconds at two fifteen and thirty five seconds today."

Molly slipped into the booth, into the seat in front of him, avoiding his long sprawled legs as she made herself comfortable in the seat across him. He looked. . . proud. Well, pride wasn't entirely obvious in him, but the glow in his eyes did say that he was. Proud of himself.

"Your. . . sleepless hours?" She enquired, non-judgmental, as she scanned the menu for something that would be affordable and yet be enough for her growling stomach, and at the same time, about the amount of the price of her precious coffee flask. She didn't know what to make of this boy. One moment he was an addict trying to hide a packet of coke and being a jerk about it, the next moment he was chanting "in the name of science" in everything that he did.

"Precisely. If it wasn't for you, I'd never even have reached fifty."

Molly paused to peer at him over the top of the menu. She wondered if that was a vague thank you of sorts. She chose not to say anything. The waitress arrived, a healthy woman with too much lipstick, "What can I get for you, love?"

"Just coffee for me, thanks," Sherlock replied dismissively as he lounged across his seat comfortably, "black, two sugars please."

She noted it down in her little notepad, "Anything else?"

"Did I say anything else?" Sherlock drawled. "When I stop talking, it's your cue to ask the other person. Obviously."

Molly looked at the waitress from under lowered eyelashes. She looked a little miffed. "Alright. What can I get for  _you_?"

"Er. . . just some tomato pasta."

"Okay, anything—" she stopped in her tracks as she eyed Sherlock's nonchalant figure. "I know, you don't want anything else."

Molly had a feeling that she won't be welcomed warmly into the place the next time she came in. "And a diet Coke too, thanks."

She beamed at the waitress, who went back to chewing the gum in her mouth. Molly sighed inwardly and turned to Sherlock. She wanted to tell him that he had been rude with her, but then she thought that it won't be the most pleasant thing to talk about, and she frankly didn't dare telling him that. She felt something akin to awe when she saw him.

He wasn't ordinary, no way. Whatever stupid doubts about Sherlock Holmes being disappointing had crept inside her mind were all misgivings. Sherlock kept staring at something outside through the tinted windows, at the school building, and Molly kept alternating between watching his gaze and watching him. The silence and awkwardness was disconcerting, to say the least.

She didn't know what to say. She wondered if Sherlock was expecting her to start a conversation, but then he was doing her and science a favour by sitting with her, so she really should let him have his way.

Then she remembered that he hadn't ordered anything but coffee, which now lay condensing in front of him, and he, oblivious to it. She found a topic to talk about.

"Your coffee is getting cold," she pointed out. He didn't respond. She debated whether to reach out and shake him, but somehow she felt like he might bite back if she did that.

"Sherlock?" She resorted to calling his name, deciding that she liked the unusual name. Even his name was unusual, she thought wistfully. She looked at her watch. The sixth period had begun, and she was missing it with a guy who didn't talk.

"I'm bored," he uttered, his breath forming haze against the glass. Molly wasn't sure what to say to that.

"Erm. . . aren't you going to eat anything?" She asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"When I eat, all the blood in my body goes to my stomach. To be precise, my small intestine, to absorb nutrition via blood vessels in the villi, or in that case, deserting my brain in the time of need. So I prefer not to eat unless absolutely necessary and that too when I know I won't be required to use my brains as much. Coffee, I intake, because it contains caffeine, which is a stimulant and improves attention and concentration when taken in moderate amounts."

Molly blinked twice. Well, it did make sense. She'd like to try that, before examinations maybe.

The pasta arrived and she tucked in, glancing at Sherlock occasionally, but she was too hungry to think about his not-eating advice. The pasta tasted like perfection in her mouth. She was so hungry she could eat more than a plate, but then she decided that she shouldn't. What would Sherlock— who was an advocate of starvation—think of her if she overate? She tried to tell herself that she was an adult and that others' opinions didn't matter to her, but then, she thought that it wasn't very "adult" of her if she tried to fool herself like that.

Sherlock paid the bill and they strode out, with Molly feeling extremely awkward, wondering whether she should thank him for the meal, but then it wasn't necessary because he was in fact reimbursing for her flask.

But she thought she needed to say something at least.

"Erm. . . it's going to strike seventh period any minute," she said, looking up at him who looked distracted as always.

"Hm, what? Oh, yes," he checked his watch. "What is it now?"

"Chemistry. Mrs. Donovan's class. . . or rather Ms. whatever-her-maiden-name-is—oh no," she reeled backwards, "I—I shouldn't have told you—please don't tell anyone—please, oh-no—"

But Sherlock only smirked, "I already know."

Her heart slowed down at his exclamation. He knew. Somehow. Thank God.

She watched Sherlock get down to work at those locks again. He had locked the gate back because Sherlock wasn't fond of leaving loose threads and wanted to make sure nobody found out that they had gone out. As Molly watched him, she was visited by a powerful desire to touch him. Would he be like a normal human being, after being so different from one? Were those curls really just plain human hair?

She swallowed back those thoughts as he worked the gate open and slipped inside smoothly and she followed him. It was awe, she could tell. Nothing else. It wasn't like she could have or look for anything with him. She was an adult, she thought as she stepped inside the boundary of the school. She wasn't a twelve year old who could fall in and out of such flings in half-a-second. Yes, he was charming in an eccentric but not-unlikeable way but that was no reason. Not strong enough.

Plus, there wasn't any time for guys. Sixth Form had a vast syllabus and there was her cat and her pissed dad to take care of, she thought as she walked into school building and possibly into the class as well. She needed more than three A-Levels.

Plus, there was no way in hell a boy like Sherlock Holmes would be interested in her.

Yet, as she walked, trying to keep up with Sherlock's ridiculously long strides, she fooled herself into thinking that she wouldn't want to see him again. He had made her feel every sort of sentiment within the few hours that they met: embarrassment, frustration, elated, confused, to name a few. Even after she thought about her responses to him, somehow she ended mixing and forgetting them completely.

Sherlock slipped into the class they were meant to go to, and Molly followed after an amount of time. She pretended not to care about Sherlock or his presence anymore as she sat on the second last bench this time. Even if she knew that he won't watch her furtively because she probably meant nothing to him, it didn't mean that she couldn't fool herself into thinking about the possibility that he might.


	3. Chapter 3

 

When Molly came back home, she was in a worse shape than she had been in school.

She couldn't recall a day when so many good and interesting things had happened to her. A boy had talked to her voluntarily, smiled at her, told her various amazing factoids. Sherlock Holmes, even the name sounded like that of an enigma. He could stay awake for three whole days continuously, he knew the whole textbook by heart, he had an _amazing_ and unconventional sense of humour, he talked against teachers. He could pick locks!

If only she had a friend, she could go on talking about him to them all day long, and then some more. She would talk about how tall he was, how funny he was, how good-looking he was, how _different_ he was. She could just never cease to be amazed by him and his little quirks.

She climbed upstairs and closed the door behind her as quietly as she could. She pressed a finger to her lip before her cat Cleo could purr her a welcome. She wanted as much time to herself before her father got wind of her presence and started ordering her around like Cinderella's wicked stepsisters.

She simply lay in her bed. Her room was an exact representation of her life. It wasn't really a room, it was sort of an attic with falling woodwork, clothes and books strewn everywhere. Whenever she ate, she always nicked extra portions and hid it under the loose floorboard under the bed so that she wouldn't have to go down for some more food. There were two rooms downstairs, one that her father used to use but didn't sleep in anymore, and another that was hers but her mother began to stay in back when she was around weeks before she left them. Molly took to the attic after the disagreements began and slowly morphed into fights and separate bedrooms. It cancelled the noise. Moreover, when her dad was drunk, he never bothered to come up.

She simply threw herself on the bed and stared at the ceiling which used to leak when there would be thunderstorms. She had a bucket to collect the water in; she really didn't want moss to grow over the already crumbling floorboard.

Although, she was a slave of hygiene, today, she didn't bother to change into her regular clothes before she fell on the bed. She tasted the name on her lips continuously: _Sherlock_ _Holmes_ , _Sherlock_ _Holmes_.

She wanted to take her diary and write all about him. She wasn't sure what to write. There was just so much. She wanted to tell someone about him, and her cat wouldn't understand anything. She played their shared time over in her head so many times until she wasn't sure what had really happened and what she wished had happened.

But as she thought more and more about him, he wasn't all the lucrative. He was rude, irresponsible, he constantly kept lying to her, he thought a lot about materialistic things and talking over teachers was more of a con than a pro. He did drugs. He was an addict. He had "addict" written all over him.

Molly felt her heart falling back into the pit. There was a difference between being a bad boy and not being a good boy, the distinction being in the fact that the latter was insured to not have goodness in them. She felt that Sherlock Holmes belonged to the latter, the more dangerous one. He was not just a bad boy, he wasn't a good boy. The drugs part scared her. Now that she was away from him and in her own little sanctuary, she felt scared for even have hung out with an addict. Only Heaven knew how she had got the courage to even talk to _an addict_.

Cleo purred mournfully, jumping on the bed. Her paws were usually clean, and she stayed tucked away in a corner—since her dad had kicked Cleo out in a drunken fit—till Molly came home from school, so she was allowed on the bed. If humans were replaced by cats around the globe, Cleo would rightfully be Molly's feline avatar.

Molly didn't even feel like stroking her. She simply grabbed the packet of cheese crackers from underneath her bed and chewed on them, careful not to go downstairs without any reason and face her drunk dad's wrath. She glanced at her schoolbag, and at her muddy track pants lying on the floor. Judging by the drunken slur that she could hear her dad uttering (who was pissed even at five thirty in the evening), he would calm down at seven thirty. The owner of the laundry shop around the corner knew Molly well and always let her do her laundry even after eight.

In all of it, Sherlock Holmes was the best thing she had (and was probably ever going to have) in her life, so she seized at it like a goblin at gold.

So when her dad screamed to her to come down and she heard the sound of glass breaking downstairs, she found that she didn't mind. Because there was still someone in the world who was as eccentric as one could be.

 

* * *

 

When Sherlock came back home, he found Mycroft in the house, one leg over the other, reading the politics sections of the newspaper. Sherlock groaned. He should've known from the umbrella in the hat-stand.

Till today, Sherlock had no idea what his brother did. His best (but quaint) guesses were either businessman or some hardly interesting International Relations job. Mycroft, although only twenty three, acted like the father figure in a forties film based on a lawyer and his three depressed kids. He stayed abroad for long periods, even months at stretch, leaving Sherlock, their father and their housekeeper, Mrs. Turner at home alone. And when he was home, he either spent his time eating or visiting their mother in the asylum well outside London. Well, of course the facility had to be well outside London. Siger Holmes could not bear to have anything tarnish his reputation of being the finest of lawyers, could he?

Mycroft walked with a slight hunch so that no one could really make out just how large his well-attended-to tummy was. He spent all of his money on his clothes and his shoes were well polished which he wore while he slept. Mycroft wasn't acquainted with the concept of sleeping in a bed. And Sherlock wanted to detach himself from the concept of sleeping at all.

Their father adored Mycroft because Mycroft walked in his footsteps. Sherlock was the black sheep of the family, the rightful successor of their mother.

"First day of Sixth Form, brother mine," was Mycroft's excuse for a welcome as he eyed Sherlock out of the corner of his vision. Sherlock shed his bag on the floor, and the rest of his clothes formed a trail after him as he made his way straight to his room. He was barely on his way to switching on the loud music in order to drown out Mycroft's incessant pratting when Mycroft threw the door open and held his smelly socks at an arm's length.

"Welcome home," he said snidely, sporting a disgusted face as Sherlock abandoned his calculations regarding his sleep experiment and grabbed a pair of pyjamas urgently.

"Mycroft! I'm undressed!"

"Fighting again, and that too on the first day," Mycroft tutted, eyeing Sherlock's bruised knuckles, and then his eyes narrowed at something behind Sherlock, "What is that?"

Sherlock immediately stilled, "Get out of my room, unless you want to suck me off!"

Although Mycroft rolled his eyes, that did not stop him from crossing across the room and towards Sherlock's desk. Sherlock held on to his pyjamas protectively as he threw his entire weight upon his desk.

"What's the problem?" Sherlock sneered, "Can't fit in your own room?"

"What are you hiding?" Mycroft demanded.

"The evidence of your overeating," Sherlock sang, but he tensed up as Mycroft came closer.

"I want to know," Mycroft said quietly. Sherlock eyed his desk. He wished desperately he had a porn magazine there so that he could deflect Mycroft with that, although it was still debatable if Mycroft would've believed him.

"Piss off," Sherlock pushed a foot in the direction of his face.

"Stop acting like a child, Sherlock," Mycroft chided and then continued in a lower voice, "And throw away the narcotics before father sees them. You know how Mummy despised them."

With that, Mycroft turned and stalked out of the room. Sherlock did not know what to do when he felt that Mycroft was disappointed, to the point that he had to mention mummy, someone he rarely talked about. Mycroft had the air of a defeated man who could not yield any result despite however hard he tried. Sherlock decided to chuck that sentiment away. So what if Mycroft was disappointed? He could be depressed or even suicidal for all Sherlock cared.

He took out the little silk packet out of his underwear where he wouldn't have a pat-down done if he ever was caught. The silk packet didn't make the crinkly sound during a pat-down. Sherlock thought he was really clever, with that. Most blokes kept their stuff in plastic pouches like the stupid ignorant people they were.

He glanced at the window. The frame could support his weight, and he could jump out of the fire escape and land next to the dump alley and hence, his road to freedom. He always did that, whenever he was grounded. He counted the money in his wallet. Less than 50. He cursed himself for losing that damned coffee flask and having to buy that small, poor girl with the alcoholic parent and a proclivity to cats another one, spending his money just because he felt guilty. Sherlock often tried to stifle such feelings in him. Sentiments like guilt, pity or any kind of empathy in general made him feel victimised, were not conducive to clear, fair thinking, and so Sherlock banned them from his head.

He could've sold that flask though, he thought wistfully. It was a durable little thing, could've pawned it for some decent cash.

He glanced at it wistfully, and then eyed the window. Another second later, he chucked the sight of Mycroft's disappointed face out of his mind's eye, pulled on a sweatshirt and a pair of shorts, and took the five feet fall down the ledge.

Sherlock did not bother to take his car. It would simply anger his father again and invite another lecture from that old man.

He had to get the money. From somewhere. He owed Frank two grand for his latest stock even if he shouldn't. Sherlock did not deny that it was good, it was the best of the best. The man had too damn high price for everything.

As he made his way out of the community, he texted Victor, asking him to come meet him in the bike shed just near their school. Victor was supposed to be bringing him some money for some high quality blow he had got him near Shaftesbury Avenue. It had been far too long since he had got a good hit, and he wanted to ride out his eightieth hour into wakefulness by a euphoric high in his system and worry about the consequences days later.

He finally felt like he had a purpose in life. He’d been in such a rut lately, with the school starting, his father coming to know about his little thefts and keeping away every valuable instrument locked away, and having to visit their mother in her facility, a white room, padded, with no sharp corners or instruments. She kept quiet while Sherlock watched her small, pale, withered and slowly deteriorating figure with Mycroft between them as a shield.

The old man refused to meet her. He was always an oddity, Sherlock's father. When he came to know of Sherlock's thefts, he cut off Sherlock's monthly allowance completely instead of increasing them so that Sherlock would not have to steal. Idiot.

He was convinced he wasn’t an addict and could quit anytime he pleased. He just didn’t want to quit. He had nothing better to do. Coke occupied his mind; rid him of the dull aching feeling of rot that had plagued him since childhood. He didn’t need to eat or sleep when he was high, his mind was sharp, and his senses were heightened.

He was in bliss.

It was in half-an-hour that Sherlock heard the thrum of a heavy motorbike. Victor was one of those bad boys who owned a motorbike instead of a car and took a girl an evening for a ride on his storming machine. Victor was still new to blow, let alone quality and Sherlock found it useful to keep an insanely rich guy on his side and at his mercy.

Victor got down from his bike and greeted Sherlock in the same fashion as he greeted his other mates, as if they had been best of friends since eternity. Sherlock put up the show only because Victor was useful and had money that he owed Sherlock every now and then and couldn't figure out why.

"Got the money?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

Victor bit the insides of his cheeks, "I want to see the new stuff first."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and trampled the cigarette under his feet, "I'm not getting you the new stuff."

Victor looked positively livid, "Man you've got to be shitting me! I ain't paying for anything but the real deal!"

"Shut up," Sherlock barked, not bothering to correct "ain't", "don't want you getting nosebleed again and that pretty leather," he jerked his head towards Victor's bike, "stained with it, do we?"

"Fuck off," Victor spat, and Sherlock felt like he had to bring the temper down. Worse than an addict was an angry one, "I ain't here to listen to your fancy English!"

Sherlock dug into his pocket and produced the little pouch. The blow was under a gram, but it was the finest Columbian sugar he could get his hands upon during the recess. It was the only thing that Sherlock considered worth to be snorted when he didn't have needles on his hand.

"There you go, bruh," Sherlock tossed it to a Victor who had abruptly turned worshipful from delirious, "A little sample for tenner. Light enough so you can snort it without letting your nose run freely."

"I ain't paying for sample," Victor seized the packet and looked at it hungrily, reverently. Sherlock made his way towards Victor and sneaked out his wallet pulling out a twenty.

"That's the tenner," Sherlock said dismissively as Victor let out a weak noise of protest that he actively ignored, "Keep it in, we need to make trip and you can shove it in your nose when you're fucked in for the day."

"What now?"

"I've got a contact in Houndsditch, I need to get him the two grand you brought along today," Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he noticed the change in Victor's expression upon mentioning the two grand. He sighed.

"Don't tell me you don't have it," was all Sherlock could whisper, afraid that if he were louder, it might turn out to be true after all. No, this wasn't possible, no way, not again. He had been chasing after Frank's supply for two weeks and he was no closer to getting it. He had gone without it for two weeks. He needed it now. He might end up doing something he would regret later.

"Look man," Victor began, but Sherlock cut it off by smoothly snatching the packet of blow out of his weak grip. Victor howled and immediately resorted to attack a weak Sherlock, but Sherlock stopped him by saying, "I'll get this back to you, if you help me."

Victor stops—rather unexpectedly, "Give me back my stuff."

"I said I'll give it back to you!" Sherlock snapped, unable to keep up his strength. He could feel the consequences of not having a night's sleep for three days taking its toll on his body. Damn, he had trained it to resist every need, every demand. He took a deep breath and worked his head around the dizziness, "If you have a debit card—"

"Oh come on!" Victor guffawed.

"—I want the money, Victor," Sherlock snarled, "or else I'll make sure that no one sells the coke to you."

"I don't have no fucking debit card!"

Again, Sherlock resisted the urge to correct him upon his grammar because that would be solely unnecessary, "Then we'll just have to get it from someone."

 

* * *

 

Molly groaned, the pain in her back excruciating, as she tried to get the old vacuum cleaner to start again. It gave a feeble burst and collapsed against the ground completely, giving up its will to live and serve.

"Please, no," she prayed. She was only halfway cleaning the house. She didn't like it dirty, not after all the mess her dad made. Speaking of her dad, he lay in the sofa snoring to his hangover right in the middle of the night, where Molly would be forced awake and would have to give him some Aspirin because the man couldn't be arsed to remember where it was. But that really wasn't his fault, Molly thought. It was better if he shouted at her to wake her up so that she could give them to him. He really didn't want him to overdose on that.

Besides, she was getting him into Alcoholics Anonymous the next day. Yes, her father thought that it was demeaning for him but there really wasn't any other choice remaining, and Molly really didn't keep rehab as an option, seeing as she didn't want to be alone in the house.

She leaned down and draped the duvet over her dad's body and took away the beer can he cradled. He only uttered "bitch" in his sleep. Molly sighed. And her mother had wanted another child.

At least her dad was still here, she reminded herself to be positive. But it didn't seem positive at all.

She glanced at the clock. It was nearly seven-thirty and she'd have to go for the laundry too. And then think about any homework. She was still picking a day when her dad's humour would be good, because during those days, her dad would be happy and acquiescent to Molly's requests, especially for the renewal of their internet plan. A bad day would mean shouting and throwing things.

Cleo prodded her father and mewled softly.

Her dad wasn't a bad guy. He was the best dad in the world. Before he took to drink. . . Molly shook herself. He still was the best dad in the world, if only he had a direction.

It was times like these that the existence of Sherlock Holmes was both a boon and a bane for her—a reminder that she was allowing another addict to become a part of her life and that she shouldn't. But she really couldn't help it. It was yet to be twenty four hours and yet, she felt a glow by just thinking about him.

And she really couldn't help it.

 

* * *

 

At four in the dawn, Sherlock was riding high. He was positively euphoric. He had scored two grams of coke, sharing it three-fourths with Victor after having helped Sherlock break into a house in Aldgate. He and Victor had grabbed a man and beat him up (although Victor had gone harder on him than Sherlock would've preferred for the intimidation) till the man began chanting the Bible backwards.

"Oh look at you," Victor had crooned, "thrashed up so badly. You can't go home in this condition."

The man, even if Sherlock and Victor had almost beaten him to death, looked at them as if they were still capable of mercy. Sherlock hadn't felt altogether comfortable with his plan, for having beaten the innocent guy so badly, but anything for a hit.

"D'you see the house over there?" Victor had grabbed the sobbing, pleading man by the collar and said calmly, "Go on there, ring the bell, cry as if a rhino had fucked you and ask for a doctor."

The man had trembled to his fingertips, eyes red and glistening and head nodding a fervent "yes". Sherlock had crushed the feelings of guilt and self-disgust in him with a hard heart. Just some cash, some coke to snort and he'll kick it all behind him, he had told himself.

As Sherlock had watched the man limp towards house number 17, he had muttered to Victor, "Should've gone in with a puppy eyes and a sob story instead."

Victor had laughed, "Whatever. He was worth it. Didn't have a tenner on him, fucker!" he had spat.

Within a minute, the inhabitants of number 17 admitted the terrorised man inside. In an instant, Sherlock and Victor were inside with masks, tying up the family of two with Sherlock's fake gun out pointed at them while Victor stole everything of value. As Victor walked out without a care, Sherlock thought for one second and tore a small bind from the man's wrist so that he could untie himself.

And now, five hours later, Sherlock was right. He had put all of it behind him and felt like he was on the top of the world, like he had no worry, no mother in asylum, no mind-numbing disappointment in a life filled with nothing but boredom and schedule. The only bursts of adrenaline he had was when he did anything that was not supposed to be done. Disobeying was the best thing in the world, but it often came tinged with emotions that were overwhelming and terrifying.

Hence nothing could hold a candle to the brilliance of drugs.

Walking close to Southwark Street, he passed a coppers car parked around the corner, swerved the other way when he heard the telltale click of the door opening and tried to come across as a bystander. Sherlock zeroed on escape routes. He never liked the road around Southwark. It was plain and boring and male coppers skirted those regions who had no qualms with following a proper bookish pat-down procedure.

Also, it had less bolt routes than should be legal.

Sherlock took a deep breath and kept walking calmly, trying not to think that the copper was headed in his direction.

"Oi!"

So much walking calmly. So much for a good night with his beloved hit off.

Sherlock turned around and looked calmly at the officer, while hoping that his jittery nerves would be gone by the time he found his voice. He had one and three-fourths of the snort, as well as the loot from the house that he hadn't pawned yet.

"Evening, officer," he attempted nonchalantly. Not bad.

"Evening," said the officer in a Somerset accent. He reminded Sherlock of someone. Brown hair, dusted with grey, teeth that ought to be reserved for a toothpaste commercial. The man was shorter than him, 5'10 maybe, but sturdily built with firmly set jaw and brown eyes, trying to quit smoking, half-asleep, etc. etc that was all Sherlock was able to glean from the dim lights of the street.

Sherlock desperately wished that the man in front of him wouldn't be able to tell how sober Sherlock was, or worse, make him take a breath analyser test. He could get away with a night in the cell; his father and Mycroft knew he roamed around at night, but he had a hunch that Mycroft would finally tell their father about what he deemed as Sherlock's "drug habit", even though he did not have one.

He could get away with telling the cop that paperwork for something as insignificant as public intoxication wasn't worth his nap, or with a bribe, even though he really didn't want to part with the money that he could use to restock for October.

"So, what's brings you out here tonight?" the officer's manner was friendly enough, but Sherlock could hear the tetchiness in his voice. He knew what he was dealing with. Sherlock cursed himself inwardly.

"Walking," Sherlock replied brusquely, making an off-handed motion to go along with it, "Just a stroll."

The officer smirked. He clearly wasn't buying it. Sherlock cast another look at him. The man was off-duty, he could tell, and yet he was around at four in the morning instead of sleeping in. . . no, he was single, Sherlock could tell.

"Right, a stroll at four in the morning."

"I could say the same for you," Sherlock blurted out before he could take control of himself. Sometimes the high did that to him, made him more prone to showing off.

The officer raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, "Oh, _really_?"

"You're off duty, plain as day," Sherlock shrugged, "You're still out. . . for a stroll."

The officer gave out a laugh, "Yeah well, duty calls."

"Not a good time to pull overtime, Inspector," Sherlock said. He could see the badge of the London Metropolitan Police clumsily concealed in his pocket, "You're keeping an eye out for something special. Or someone."

The officer seemed unfazed by Sherlock's reasoning. Sherlock found it demoralising, but soon he smiled sheepishly, "Well, can't talk about my job, yeah? But I could talk about something else."

Sherlock groaned inwardly. His hopes of diverting the police officer's—Inspector, what was an _Inspector_ doing out during these hours? Hopefully, some serial killer—went right down the drain. Suddenly, Sherlock felt terribly out of shape.

"Oh yeah?" Sherlock asked vaguely. The officer looked uneasy about something, but then he just decided to chuck it and took out some papers from his car after setting the takeout coffee on the bonnet.

"We had a report of a burglary, not five hours ago, from near Aldgate," the officer began. "Husband and wife, they had a man beaten to death come up to their threshold at eleven-fifteen or summat. Two kids came in while they tried to call 999 and robbed them off."

Sherlock bit the insides of his cheek. Damn karma!

 "That's awful!" Sherlock shook his head disgustedly.

"The injured guy is in sedation now, has severe internal bleeding."

Sherlock was definitely going to teach Victor Trevor a lesson for this. He had told him not to hit him hard, that sadist!

"My prayers be with him," Sherlock said flatly, trying and failing to sound horrified, knowing that he came across as fake to the man.

"We've got a description of the offenders, hoping that you can identify. They had masks on their faces so we don't have much to be going on with."

"Oh?" Oh shit.

"Yeah, both of them were over 6', one of them was skeleton-y. . ."

Sherlock inwardly huffed over skeleton-y.

". . .wore a purple hoodie and black shorts. A deep gash on his right knee."

Sherlock thought he should take his leave now as he saw the officer's eyes travel downwards towards the said knee.

"Another was muscular, dark blue jeans, black shirt," the inspector was smirking now at his own supposed victory. Sherlock didn't know if he would be able to make it with the coke in his system. "Nicked most of their jewellery."

"Well, I can keep my eyes out, if you like," Sherlock said in a false tone of innocence, edging away from the inspector every second.

"Oh that's not all," the inspector came closer. Sherlock contemplated suing him for assault, "Pawnbroker, two streets away. Admitted to working out a loan for the jewellery for a _Sherlock Holmes_. Handed 'em over. Jewels are safe with their rightful owner now."

Sherlock was going to kill Victor now for passing Sherlock's name as his, "I'm _so_ pleased that the story had a happy ending, so that's it, I'm off!"

With that, Sherlock began to walk away. He knew that the odds were slim to none, but he had to escape.

"Oi, wait!"

Sherlock broke into a run, turning about Sumner Street and through to Park Street. He heard the Inspector give chase behind him. He tried to run faster but he felt like his legs had turned to lead and air wouldn't reach his lungs.

"Don't go that side," was all the Inspector shouted. Sherlock paid no heed, making his way towards the Southwark Bridge. He had known to avoid the Bank side while he was high—

He almost reeled backwards at the noise. The noise of a single gunshot echoing at the air. He caught his breath and the Inspector caught up with him. The noise had come from somewhere in front of him. Where he was headed. Sherlock contemplated his other escape routes.

"There you are," the officer caught him and Sherlock gulped like a dying fish. "I didn't tell you. I asked your chums and they said that they knew a Sherlock Holmes who fit that description—"

Another gunshot.

"Christ, just get behind me!" was all the officer shouted. Sherlock complied, while trying to peep ahead and got it why the inspector was out of his bed at four.

"This is what you were awake for, weren't you? You were making an encounter," Sherlock said, eyes gleaming as the officer pulled out a gun.

"Look kid," the inspector growled, "you stay out of this."

"Take me with you," Sherlock demanded petulantly.

The officer exhaled the babysitter sigh, "Look, I'm letting you go—"

Another gunshot. The sound of skidding of cars. The noises came from the side of the Cannon Street footbridge. Sherlock refused to budge, knowing very well that he was being an idiot but some irrational part of him clung to the policeman.

The Inspector ignored him and pulled out his radio, "All units to HMS Belfast. I repeat, all units to HMS Belfast."

With that, the Inspector broke into a run towards from where they had come. Sherlock could've escaped, could've taken the alley and made the second solution and made it off with another fantastic hit, but his legs followed the Inspector like a north-seeking compass needle. The inspector turned around and entered his car and shut the door behind him, revving up the engines.

"Wait!" Sherlock shouted, trailing behind the vehicle. The Inspector slowed down and poked his head out.

"Go home, kid! I'll find you sooner or later. Junkies like you."

"I want to come too," Sherlock wheezed. The high was ending, and soon, the logical part of his mind would be able to convince him to run away, "and you're just wasting time talking to me."

"You're just a bloody burden. I'm not taking you to a shooting. You might be taken hostage or something."

"I'll stay in the car," Sherlock said unthinkingly, "promise."

"Aw, what the hell!" the Inspector swore, not able to let go of a potential suspect in a house robbery, "get in."

"With pleasure," Sherlock smirked as the car stopped to admit him. As soon as he closed the door, the vehicle shot off like a bird towards the London Bridge. Meanwhile, to sustain the high he was still in, Sherlock rattled off a string of deductions about the man himself and where they were going.

"You're young for an Inspector. Unmarried, only a brother, also unmarried. You're trying and failing to quit smoking. You've got a kid, though, ten or something, going by the way you talked with me. You were waiting at a distance today because you weren't sure that tonight was the night. But you had a hunch so you waited, just for the sake."

The Inspector remained quiet, focussing on the voices flooding from his radio. Sherlock went on as they made their way through Clink Street towards London Bridge pier. He took a sharp turn, gritting his teeth.

 "So you're really Sherlock Holmes?" The Inspector said in a calm voice

"You say that as if I'm a celebrity," Sherlock retorted.

"I know you father, you're quite like him. Siger Holmes, met him once or twice during a witness statement thing in court."

Oh shit, Sherlock thought again. He didn't have any address on his person and usually the cops let him go after a nice blowjob in the backseat. This one, however, was new and methodical, prone to go by the book, send him to the cell by night and contact his father. And wouldn't his father love coming down to the station in front of everyone and claiming Sherlock, the junkie and the thief, as his son?

Mycroft would be so much better.

"I'm nothing like my father," Sherlock rolled his eyes. That was true. The only thing they had in common was the knowledge of law that Sherlock had gained from reading his father's books when he was young. His father used that knowledge to uphold the law. Sherlock used it to evade it.

"Well, you reminded me of him. Plus the same last name. Wasn't a difficult leap."

"Hmm." Sherlock said uncertainly. Let that be the last of his father.

They slowed down near Hay's Galleria. The Inspector kept a careful eye on the sliver of light visible among the buildings leading to the pier. He cocked a gun, muttering a string of curses under his breath.

"One second," Sherlock stopped him, "What if you die? I'll stay here locked forever?!"

"Yeah well," the Inspector winced at the thought, "Should've thought of that before coming on like Jim Hawkins."

"I wish," Sherlock said wistfully in an undertone.

"Now, I'm not letting you out during this. So let's just do this now. Public intoxication," he took out a couple of gloves and put them. Sherlock instantly cursed his stupidity.

"Right then, any weapons?"

"No," he let out a dramatic sigh. He was almost certain he wouldn’t find the blow on him. And if he did, oh not again, he really didn't want to be sent away to juvenile. He had had enough restrictions in his life as it was. He didn't need adding to it. The inspector began patting him down.

"Tell me about yourself," he said. Sherlock gaped at the man.

"Sorry what?!"

The inspector stopped in his examination, "I said tell me about yourself. You don't seem the type to give up even after you're grounded and I could get to know about my regulars."

"Regulars?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "You don't do patrol duty. You're a detective." And a sad excuse at that.

"Well yes, but I know boys like you. They always end up doing something worse in the name of getting high as they grow up. So well, anything you do, it'd be easier for me to prove the guilt."

"D'you know that you're actually putting me off from telling you about myself?"

"Well, you have your father. Strong lawyer, nobody dares interrupt him in court, you know. He can always bail you. I easily solve whatever crime you commit, I get my promotion. You keep getting bail and work your way out of prison every time. Win-win."

Sherlock smirked. "You sound really disillusioned with criminals in making."

"Well, should I be happy about criminals in making? They rob my sleep," the inspector replied archly as Sherlock took off his hoodie and handed it to the Inspector reluctantly.

"Reversible," the inspector remarked and Sherlock fought back a smug grin, "and there's the purple hoodie. You know, kid clever like you can make your place in the world."

"The world's too small for me," Sherlock remarked, "I'd rather have my head in the clouds. . . Speaking of which, I seem to have seen you somewhere."

The inspector looked startled at that, and then looked up, assessing Sherlock, "How old are you?"

Sherlock thought for a moment before saying, "Twenty."

The inspector narrowed his eyes. Sherlock thought better of it, "Nineteen."

A clear of throat, and then, "Eighteen."

"What is this, a rocket launch?"

Sherlock let out a aggravated sigh, "Sixteen."

"I thought so. St. Bart's Academy?"

Sherlock looked startled, "How do you know?"

"My brother teaches there. The name 'Lestrade' ring a bell?"

Sherlock choked on his breathing, "W-what?!"

Now that the Inspector—Lestrade—said it, Sherlock knew why he looked so familiar, "You're his twin," he exclaimed, "You look the same."

"Well, yeah. That's why we're twins. Thought you were clever enough to figure it out," Lestrade said dryly.

Sherlock huffed and averted his eyes as Lestrade finally found the jewellery Sherlock had stashed away in the lining of his hoodie.

"Look at you," he nodded to Sherlock's skinny legs, "Haven't even started wearing proper pants yet and you're already stealing."

"It's easier to run in knickers."

"But not with that much coke in your body," Lestrade smirked.

"You won't get a medal for getting me arrested," Sherlock said, "Keep half of it, slap me few times and end this matter right here."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, slid his hands down Sherlock’s chest and checked the breast pocket on his t-shirt. He slid the hoodie back up and onto Sherlock’s shoulders. He grabbed and squeezed along the legs of Sherlock’s shorts. He motioned for Sherlock to remove his shoes. Sherlock toed off his shoes and took off his socks while Lestrade peeled back the inserts and checked them over. Sherlock let out a sigh. Just a quick pat down of his privates and he’d be done.

Lestrade lifted at the bottom of Sherlock’s t-shirt, smoothed out the area near his crotch. Ran the back of his hand up the front of his jeans, then stopped. Sherlock's heart sank at the sudden pause. He couldn't have found it.

"You do realise what we'll look like to people?" Sherlock tried weakly. Anything to stop him from reaching out for the silk packet through the flimsy material of his shorts.

Lestrade didn't reply as he patted Sherlock's thigh in an unvoiced "spread". Sherlock spread his legs letting Lestrade carry on his clumsy examination inside the car. There was still a small chance he wouldn’t find the grams but still. . .

And Lestrade's hand went directly to his pocket and took out the pocket, revealing the gram. Sherlock cursed in his head angrily as Lestrade chuckled.

"Nice. You could use this you know. Get your head on straight. Clean up your act," Lestrade said, "You’re a real smart kid. I can only imagine my brother's pain teaching kids like you."

Sherlock did not know whether to laugh or not.

"You could make up your life. Get your father's connections, follow him in law."

Sherlock looked over his shoulder, "What about your raid?"

"Yeah, well, we had a false alarm. When you were pratting on, they said it on the radio. A couple of minutes more and then I'd have to go in," he withdrew a pair of handcuffs and cuffed Sherlock to the wheel. Sherlock groaned, "well then, princess. Stay here, I'll go check in. You can use that radio to tell someone about your situation in case I. . ." he trailed off.

"In case you die," Sherlock said with a defeated sigh, looking at his handcuffed wrists, "I hope you do."

"You ain't getting rid of me so easy, kid," Lestrade smirked. And with that, he locked the door behind him and kept a ready grip on his gun as he made his way towards the pier.

Sherlock sighed in his loneliness. Well, he was alone, not lonely. This was not the first time he had been interrogated, but it sure was the first time he was caught. And that too by a young officer. Inspector, he corrected himself. He could just go and die of shame, even if he found the idea of it unpractical.

He looked at the dashboard, inside which Lestrade had stashed the gram. If only his hands were a bit more free, he'd lapse into the all-consuming pleasure of the narcotics. Until then, he'd just have to keep trying to extract his wrists from the—

A skid of a car's wheels against the tar, muffled by the car windows closed and Sherlock looked up, heart hammering in the chest. The whole city was asleep, the clock on the dashboard said it was four-thirty, and yet there were people, policemen wide awake raiding criminals. Sherlock ducked under the wheel, keeping only an eye out. Soon, the car in front of him was in pursuit, and two police cars behind it. A couple of gunshots rang out in the air but Sherlock could tell that the offending car was bulletproof. Sherlock watched in morbid fascination as they managed to puncture the tyres of one of the police cars while they swerved out of the way of an approaching police car, almost colliding with it.

Sherlock ducked when the nearby air exploded deafeningly and at once, all the cars in the neighbourhood began wailing. The explosion erupted in the night sky, creating an aura of bright glare and immolation as Sherlock watched, eyes wide, heart in his throat. A bomb blast, surely. He struggled futilely against the manacles, trying to break them and break out of the car to see what was happening. Of course he'd be careful, he was reckless, not suicidal. He realised that his chances of getting out of the car were growing minimal as every second passed and with no face of the Inspector. He might even die in the explosion, Sherlock thought with some dread. He was starting to like the man.

As Sherlock watched the glare from the explosion, he was aware of someone knocking on the door. He turned, expecting Lestrade but was met by a man whose face was as pale as his. Sherlock watched him warily as the man kept banging at the window.

"Go away!" Sherlock said petulantly, "I'm grounded."

The man, who sported a bloody shoulder, kept grumbling something. Sherlock took pity on the man and—completely disregarding that he might be one of those from the explosion—Sherlock, with his bare feet rolled down the window till he could hear the man's voice.

"Get out of the car!" the man demanded.

Sherlock sighed an all-suffering sigh when the man brandished his gun at him with his uninjured arm, "Don't be an idiot. I'm handcuffed."

At that, there was another explosion and the man tried to break the windows which Sherlock rolled back up. When the barrel of the gun seemed to be stuck insistently against the edge of the window glass, Sherlock rolled the window with as much strength as he could with his helpless toes that knew no manner of coordination within themselves.

"Hands," Sherlock muttered, trying not to show how nervous he really was, "scored five cuts in one place, hook. Tattoo, seaman, pirate, smuggler," Sherlock's eyes widened in realisation, "You're a smuggler. Lestrade was hunting you people. What would you do aboard the HMS Belfast, it's a museum—?"

"Shut up!" The man stabbed at the window with his elbow. Cracks appeared in it. Damn police cars!

Sherlock began looking around for weapons but he doubted that there would be many things that would protect him from the path of a bullet. Meanwhile the man kept stabbing the glass. Finally he had enough of it and decided to wait no longer. With the aim of a gun, he shot down the window before Sherlock could see it. Sherlock felt the bullet almost graze past his nose and bury into the other window. He let out a sharp, cowardly cry of fear mixed with the high of the coke coming down.

The smuggler finally succeeded in breaking the window down and tried to yank Sherlock out by the hood of his sweatshirt. Sherlock tried to kick at him, but he screamed at the pain breaking out in his wrists. The police car was wailing loudly. Sherlock wished he could have something to soothe his fraying nerves. He was helpless, unable to fight without his hands. And his sleep deprivation added to it.

"I am handcuffed!" Sherlock bellowed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a car stopping by an alleyway. Police or not, he didn't know.

"Help me!" Sherlock cried out without any notion of shame when moments away from perhaps dying. Suddenly, there was the sound of the car door opening and a single gunshot rang out in the air. One half of Sherlock's body was dangling outside the car as his assaulter collapsed in a limp pack of bones and limbs.

Sherlock marvelled at his good luck. Lestrade was here, or some policeman. He heaved a sigh of relief and tried to crane his neck to meet the eyes of his survivor. But all he saw was a slender, feminine figure against the glare and the noise of the raid near the pier before he felt pain breaking out in his leg and blackness in front of his eyes was all he knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delay=long chapter, my mantra.  
> This story will take time and this chapter isn't a promise that the next chapter would be up soon, but yeah, the plot begins from here. Just one more character left to introduce. I think you know who.
> 
> Next chapter is back to school. And some Sherlolly. Hopefully some blond teen too ;)  
> Thanks for reading

**Author's Note:**

> Review? Should I continue this?


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